
Paternal House
Narayan Mukhopadhyay
Before I knew it, two years have passed
Since my wife went to her parental home.
Her hairpin, vermilion box, comb,
Mirror, saree, and memories lie scattered.
Letters, paper, pen, and a bottle of alta remain.
The moon has set, causing her to sulk!
In this melancholic sulking she has cried and gone to her father’s home.
There, rivers after rivers,
Fields after fields, birds among birds,
And the nectar of rain.
